


lost in space

by zoestertoaster



Category: Doctor Who, Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Doctor saves Sherlock, Gen, M/M, Post-Reichenbach
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-02-13
Updated: 2012-02-13
Packaged: 2017-10-31 02:24:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,576
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/338849
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/zoestertoaster/pseuds/zoestertoaster
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There are fixed points in time.  There are certain things which will have always been meant to happen that way.  One such example: Sherlock Holmes disappears, left for dead, and three (long) years later he appears in John Watson's consulting room.</p>
            </blockquote>





	lost in space

“John, do you mind if I ‘borrow’ your phone for a second? I need to send a text.”

John turned around, heart painfully leaping somewhere up around his Adam’s apple.  That voice.  It couldn’t be.  _This is it, John_ , he thought to himself, _you’ve finally gone so far round the bend you’ll never get back.  It only took you three years._

John hardly dared to look.  But he couldn’t stop himself.  Where an elderly man had been sitting on John’s exam bed only moments prior, Sherlock Holmes now perched.  A wig and some paper towels were piled up around him, while he dabbed at his face.  The makeup he’d been wearing was so pale it hardly changed the color of the paper towels.  Yet, it had changed his face so entirely that he’d appeared nearly 80 years old.

The man in the fez and suspenders looked on and smiled.  He’d introduced himself as “a fellow Doctor,” although something about the way he’d said it implied a capitalization that John didn’t apply to himself.

“John,” said Sherlock, putting down the paper towels and holding out his arms.  John didn’t exactly understand.  “John, I—I shouldn’t have done it like that.  I’m--”

The world spun, shrank only to Sherlock sitting on the exam bed, and then it was all black.

\--

**3 years prior:**

 John Watson was grieving.  Everyone knew it, and everyone treated him with just the right amount of care.

Which was nice, he supposed.

He couldn’t accept it, though.  There were so many things he’d wanted to say that he couldn’t, not to a gravestone or his therapist.  Things that it only mattered if Sherlock heard them.

This is what it feels like, he thought, to be lost in space.  When he dreamt, which was rare, it wasn’t nightmares of the battlefield anymore but of drifting through the cosmos, through nebulae and stardust, tethered to nothing, with the home he was searching for so far away that it was unreachable.  He didn’t even know where it was anymore.  The feeling would linger even when he was awake, and last throughout the day.  He wandered the streets of London in this haze, gravity or obligation pulling him where it willed.

And so it was that John walked past the STILL ALIVE. SH. graffiti scribbled on the first step of the stairs leading up to 221 B Baker Street for God-knows-how-many days before noticing it.

\--

“I do hope he hasn’t hit his head,” the Doctor said.

John found himself face-to-face with a polka-dotted bow tie upon his revival. 

“I always think concussions are terrible, don’t you?  They can turn nasty in a matter of moments.  At least he’s waking up now.  _Hello_ , John Watson!  Quite nice to finally see you again, safe and sound.  Or—no, wait, rather, we’ve met before, but not to you we haven’t.  No, don’t panic, that doesn’t help anything.”

“I’m not panicking,” said John, in a high-pitched voice which cracked halfway through “panicking.”

What do you do when you’ve lost your mind? John wondered. _Hello, doctor, I seem to be hallucinating my dead best friend.  Yes, I’m sure he’s dead, I watched him die three years ago and he hardly looks a day older.  No, I’m not on any kind of medication._

_Oh and there’s a mad bloke who seems to be living like Merlin and who calls himself a Doctor._

Sherlock had always thought John sentimental and foolish in that regard, and while certainly it was to some extent true, John also had the compartmentalization skills of an army doctor when it came to analyzing himself.  Sherlock Holmes stood before him, but Sherlock Holmes was dead, and could not stand before him, so the fault must lie with John.  John’s mind, most specifically.

“You’re not hallucinating,” said Sherlock, reaching out to touch John’s hand.  It felt warm, and slightly sweaty.

“I sort of think I am,” said John.  “Or I’ve fallen asleep.  It—It wouldn’t be the first time.”

You could admit that kind of thing to a hallucination, John decided.  He tried to recall if you could hallucinate something touching you.  You probably could.

“The first time you fell asleep on the job, or the first time you dreamt I came back?” asked Sherlock softly.  He was still holding John’s hand.

“If you’re what I think you are,” said John, “Then you know.  If not… well.  You always know anyway.”

“Are you sure you’re not panicking?” said the Doctor, flustered.  “Well, you look sort of panicked so I thought—ooh, no, that’s angry, sorry—“

“3 _years!_ ”

Sherlock sounded remarkably unsarcastic when he said, “Yes, John.  That’s how much time it’s been.”

“Careful, now,” cautioned the Doctor.  John pushed him away, hand to chest, and he registered something odd about it, but couldn’t figure it out.  “Slowly, slowly get up!  Easy does it, Dr. Watson!  I’m afraid you’ve had a nasty shock.”

“Shock doesn’t even begin to cover it,” said John.  “I’ve got some things I’d like to say to this man.  Possibly with my fist, depending.”

“It’s not his fault,” said the Doctor.

John glanced at Sherlock.

To tell the truth, Sherlock looked something like apologetic.  Or at least as close as his supercilious nature could ever let him get.  It was like seeing a powdered wig on a Pomeranian, and it was so startling that John found himself unable to say anything.

\--

**2.5 years prior**

The messages popped up everywhere, for maybe a month or so, and then disappeared again.  John saved each and every one of them to his phone and showed them to Lestrade.  Or Greg, as John knew him, now that they weren’t exactly working together anymore and rather going out for pints on weekends.

Scrawled on the side of the bin at 221 B: DON’T LOSE HOPE. SH.

On the table that John always sat at in the tiny coffee shop round the corner: IT’LL BE A WHILE YET. SH.

And, on his bedroom mirror:  SO DO TRY TO KEEP YOUR MARKSMANSHIP SKILLS IN SHAPE. SH.

(He didn’t show that one to Lestrade.)

Lestrade agreed that they were very odd, and that they did sound an awful lot like they were from Sherlock, but he added that sometimes grief does strange things to a man and his great uncle once had carried a kitten born on the day his great aunt died claiming it was her reincarnated self and maybe John ought to go back to seeing his therapist.  John said that he had done that and Lestrade’s mouth formed a quiet “o” and nothing more was said on the matter.  At least Lestrade still asked him out for drinks.

John didn’t show the therapists the letter.

\--

“This moment is a fixed point,” said the Doctor.  “I’m terribly sorry.  It had to be that way, or else—well, you probably won’t understand the mathematics of it, but it’s very important that fixed points stay fixed points.  That is to say, Sherlock was always going to meet you here and now, my good fellow. So when he leapt off that building I had to save him.  I know you’ve spent a lot of the time over the past few years thinking you were going mad as a hatter, and to be honest you probably were.  In fact, I suggested that we not leave those messages for you, in order to avoid that outcome.”

“You’re telling me,” said John, “that you actually time-travelled here, to this moment.”

“He insisted on leaving them anyway,” said the Doctor, sighing.  “Despite 900 years’ worth of experience telling him not to.  And yet.  At least you don’t seem to have lost your mind.  Ah, well.  I have to remember I don’t know everything sometimes.  But only sometimes.  The rest of the time I rather know a lot of everything.”

“But while it’s been three years for you,” said Sherlock, “it’s only been a few months for me.”

“Oh,” said John faintly.  “Has it?”

_Because it’s felt like a fucking century_ , John didn’t say.

\--

**2 years prior**

John printed out his pictures of the letter and taped them to the back of his door, so he saw them every day.  He stole some of the documents that had Sherlock’s hand on them and tried to do his best handwriting analysis.  If they were forgeries, he was forced to conclude, it would require better skills than his own amateur ones to discover it.

He’d thought it would be a relief, finding out Sherlock was still alive.  He’d thought the dreams would stop.

But it wasn’t a relief, and the dreams didn’t stop.  He stopped grieving at least, but even the grief had been something.  There was something like happiness, a distant star in the celestial sphere of his nightmares, but it was tempered by the gray knowledge that Sherlock couldn’t come back.

(John was always certain Sherlock would come back, if he could.  Until then, Sherlock had told John to wait, and John would wait.  And someday, he’d come back, and John would never let him go again.)

(On good days, John really believed that.)

And even on bad days, the letters offered some sense of a promise.  And with that, John could rebuild his life.

He started with the cute blonde from two doors down, who was kind and gentle and had a nice sense of humor.

\--

“So it’s a time-travelling phone box,” said John.

“I believe we’ve explained that rather enough,” said Sherlock.  “I think you’d be quite impressed, though.  It’s bigger on the inside, see.  There’s a lot of science in it, but it’s all quantum mechanics.”

“And therefore uninteresting,” finished John.

“I actually think it’s very interesting,” said the Doctor.

Sherlock rolled his eyes.

“Did you have a lot of trouble with the concept of ‘planets’ with this one?” asked John.

“He did seem remarkably reluctant to remember them,” said the Doctor thoughtfully.  “Or, ah, even the name of his own solar system.”

“None of this is _important_ ,” said Sherlock, getting irritated.

\--

**1 year prior**

“We were supposed to get married today,” said John dully, throwing the flowers onto Mary Morstan’s grave.  They smacked against the stone and fell, plastic cover crackling as they rolled to the ground.  Mrs. Hudson put a hand on his arm.

There was a generic angel on the gravestone.

Mrs. Hudson had no words of comfort this time.  Nobody had anything to say.  Not this time around, anyway.  It seemed people had run out of comforting words for John.

And who could be comforting when someone so wonderful as Mary was dead?

“I’ve done this before,” John said loudly, to whoever might be listening.  “Buried someone I lo—Buried a friend.  It’s not bloody new to me anymore.”

Mrs. Hudson covered her mouth. 

“Last time I thought—“ John paused.  _I thought I’d collapse into dust._   Did he really want to say this in front of Mrs. Hudson?

“Let it out, dear,” she said gently, putting a hand on his arm.  It was a grandmotherly sort of move, one that said _you’re safe here_.  

“I miss her,” he said instead, and let the tears flow for his fiancée in a way that he hadn’t for his best friend.  Sherlock wouldn’t have wanted tears, didn’t understand them, but Mary would have known that they were the last thing John could give her, the last way he could show she’d meant something.

Mrs. Hudson offered him her handkerchief, which he politely declined. 

He picked up the flowers, from where they had rolled off to the side of the grave, and as he bent down, he caught a glimpse of a flash of white on the slate-grey stone.

“That’s odd,” he said aloud, and peered closer.

I AM SO SORRY FOR YOUR LOSS.  SH.

He blinked.  The words were still there, written in chalk, so as not to mar the gravestone itself.  _That is_ , thought John with the sort of detachment only present in people who have at some point in their life had to stand face to face with madmen like Moriarty, and not betray fright, _a surprisingly thoughtful move for Sherlock_.

He wanted to run through the graveyard, shouting Sherlock’s name.  He wanted to climb the tree and scour everything in view, go over this place with a fine-toothed comb.  But the sure knowledge that Sherlock would be gone, combined with bone-deep weariness, held him in place.

_I can’t follow him now_ , thought John.  _But maybe someday, when he comes back—_

“Mrs. Hudson,” he said, “do you—“

“Do I what, dear?” she said kindly.  He gestured to the grave.

“Come—come have a look at this.”

Mrs. Hudson carefully stepped around the freshly turned dirt.

“Have a look at what?”

John glanced again.  The words were gone.  It was then that he really knew he’d lost his mind, and there wasn’t any turning back.

Funny, though.  He hadn’t known being mad would be so empty.

“Er,” he said, wondering. “Never mind.  Just a trick of the light, I suppose.”

\--

John sat down on his chair shutting his eyes.

“Will you be gone,” he asked, “if I open my eyes in three seconds?  Will I wake up?”

“I’m afraid we’re quite real,” said the Doctor gently, putting a hand on his shoulder.  As though he could understand what John was thinking.

But he couldn’t, not possibly, not when John was thinking that either possible answer to his question was as frightening as the other.

_This man_ , thought John, _he’s rather like Sherlock, but if Sherlock had a heart._

Heart.

A chill ran through John.  He’d pushed on the right side of the man’s chest, and felt a heartbeat where there shouldn’t be one.  He stared at the man curiously.

“What is it?” asked the Doctor.

“Come here,” said John.  “Er, please.  If you like.  I’m just… curious.”

The Doctor gave him a pleasant smile.

“Of course.”

He approached, and John held out his stethoscope.

“Ah, you noticed,” said the Doctor softly.  John placed it first on the left, and then on the right side of the Doctor’s chest.  The Doctor guided his hand.  His hand felt cool against John’s.

“Two hearts,” said John, in awe.  “Your—your arteries, your veins.  How does that work?  They both beat, so…”

“Of course he’s got two hearts,” said Sherlock.  “He’s an alien, John, hadn’t you figured that out?”

“Don’t be too hard on him,” said the Doctor.  “Most people don’t figure it out quite so fast.”

“Yes,” said John. “Alien was the obvious conclusion, and not weird government experiment that your brother conducted that got out of hand.”

“Don’t be stupid, John,” said Sherlock. “What on earth would the government need with a human with two hearts?”

“Actually—“ began the Doctor.  “Well, er, never mind, you’re right.  For now.”

John raised his eyebrows at Sherlock.

“Well,” said the Doctor. “I’ve done my job here.  Pleasure meeting you, John Watson.  And Sherlock, it’s been quite the ride.”

“Thank you, Doctor,” said Sherlock primly.

“I will be sorry to give him back,” said the Doctor.  “It’s been a long time since I had a companion who could keep up with me.”

Sherlock scowled.  John started laughing.

“You couldn’t stand it, could you?” he asked. “Not being the cleverest one in the room.  Not being able to make fun of everyone for not keeping up.”

Sherlock’s scowl deepened.  The Doctor beamed.

“We did work best when I sent him off on his own tasks,” admitted the Doctor.  “But still.  When we worked together, we were an excellent team.  The best, really.”

Sherlock’s mouth sort of twitched into something approximating a smile.

“I did deeply appreciate the opportunity to catch Jack the Ripper,” he said.  “Thank you, Doctor. Er, nameless Doctor, not John.”

John only sort of registered that sentence.

“No, no, no,” said the Doctor graciously. “Thank you, Sherlock.  I’d been trying to solve that one for _ages_.”

Sherlock stuck out his hand, and the Doctor grinned.

“Always good to part on positive terms, I think,” he said.  “Or it doesn’t have to be parting.  If you like.  John Watson, have you ever wanted to see the universe?  Care to find Amelia Earhart, Sherlock?  That’s not one I’ve done yet.”

John could practically feel Sherlock’s curiosity grow palpable.

“I’ll be back in a week,” said the Doctor.  “Give you two some time to think it over.”

“That won’t be necessary,” said Sherlock.  “But we will need some time to pack our bags.  John, it’s been—it’s been a few years, but I trust I can still tell by the fact that you have no ring on your left hand, when I glanced at your phone earlier you had no plans discussed in texts or any recent calls, your general disarray, the objects around your desk that indicate boredom is a frequent topic on your mind…  In general, you have no ties here and no interest in your surroundings beyond what is proper.”

“And how do you know I want to drop all of this and go time-travelling?” John asked curiously. 

In answer, Sherlock bent down and kissed him.  It wasn’t much of a surprise.  There was a look on Sherlock’s face that John recognized, though he’d never seen it on Sherlock’s face before.  John had a split second to consider.  He didn’t need it.

He kissed Sherlock back. The kiss was brief, which John had expected. 

It was an experiment, that was all, an experiment to confirm something Sherlock had suspected in John since shortly before he… left.  John had hoped Sherlock would never try to test the waters, but he should have known that this was Sherlock.

Sherlock cupped his face with his hand, which John did not expect.  It should have been a mere experiment, the touch added a sentimentality that John was confused by.

He caught the look in Sherlock’s eye, the slight nod of his head.  John was confused no longer.

It was an experiment, and it was a confirmation of a hypothesis, and it was a promise.  And it was so _easy_.

“You’re uncomplicated,” said Sherlock.  John caught a glimpse of the Doctor behind him, smiling slightly.

“Oh?” said John, not taking offense. “Seems to me that it would be pretty simple to let you walk back out of here and never risk my life for someone who would do to me what you did, ever again.”

It was funny, the way that when Sherlock was given an argument against a theory he knew to be true, he lit up like a Christmas tree.

“You won’t do that,” said Sherlock.  “You won’t do that because you’re the kind of man who runs off to look at bodies with a man he met the day before.  You won’t do that because you’re bored, and you’re lonely—Why are you _not_ jumping to do this?  You’re not hesitant, you’re waiting for… waiting for--”

“Draw a conclusion, Sherlock,” interrupted John.

Sherlock stared at him for a moment.  John raised his eyebrows, smiling a little. 

“You just want me to ask.”

“Bingo.”

The Sherlock that John had met four and a half years ago would have hesitated, bewildered at the idea of _asking_ anyone to do something that he knew they wanted to do.

“John, come with me this time,” Sherlock said breathlessly, instantly, _easily_.  “I can't ever leave you behind again.”

-

**2 years later**

“Not the red one, not the red one!” said the Doctor, madly running up and down the field, trying to catch all of the puffy seed pods before they could hit the ground, burst, and grow into more monsters for John to shoot.

“I didn’t clip the red wire!” snapped Sherlock.  He glanced back.  “ _Damn_.  What do I do if that was in fact the case?”

“Keep trying to find the blue one!”

“Sherlock,” mumbled John, still only requiring one bullet per monster despite the fact that the roots growing up from the ground were attempting to hold his arm down.  “I’m going to run out of ammo.”

“I’m trying,” hissed Sherlock. 

“Okay, well,” said John. “Try a little faster, could you?”

John shot one of the wretched beasts as it reached for Sherlock’s scarf that he still insisted on wearing.

Sherlock glanced back at him, for a moment, and then went back to his work.  John knew the glance that Sherlock gave him.  It always preceded—

“I’m glad you’re here,” Sherlock said softly, so the Doctor wouldn’t overhear.

“Couldn’t stand to be any place else,” said John, wrenching his arm free.  The roots withered, and shrank back into the ground.  The seedpods stopped falling.  The monsters screamed and writhed and turned to dust.  John’s arm was bleeding.

Sherlock smiled at him.

“Done,” he said, and reached for John’s jacket to pull him closer.

“Oh, I hardly think so,” said the Doctor.  “We’re never done around here!  Always more mysteries—oh, well, er, I guess we’re done for today, then—“

John rested his hand on Sherlock’s heart and let the kiss end naturally.

“Best take this to someplace more private, don’t you think?”

“I quite agree, John!  Excellent plan!” said the Doctor cheerfully.  “There’s a rather nice corner in the TARDIS down the third hall—“

“Aware of it,” said Sherlock briskly, already tugging John’s hand in that general direction.

“Of course you are, of course you are,” said the Doctor, brushing them off.  “Lovebirds.”

But Sherlock was already gone around the corner, John following, hand in hand.


End file.
